


The Other Side Of The Mirror

by thedogzoo



Category: Doctor Who, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Supernatural
Genre: AU, Gen, I blame the fanfiction I read, I did my best okay, Idk I'm just winging it, Sherlock's a pain in the ass, Superwholock, Swearing, The French Mistake, What the Hell, i can't write, motivation isn't my division, some blood and gore at the beginning
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-08
Updated: 2016-05-27
Packaged: 2018-06-01 01:59:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6496393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedogzoo/pseuds/thedogzoo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some people look at the mirror for appearance. But others.. They look into it. When the Winchesters, Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, the Doctor, and the Ponds are pushed into an alternate universe, what will become of them? Will they start to shape themselves for the better? Or become their reflection?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"Whoooah-!"

"Doctor!? What's happening!?"

Throughout the quaking, a man in a bow tie managed to run around a panel, flipping switches and shifting gears. He was panicking. "This, Amy, is what it feels like when the TARDIS decides to go against my requests," he murmured, giving up on trying to control his 'vehicle' and gripped onto the panel tightly.

Amy and Rory Pond were traveling companions with the Doctor. Who's the Doctor, you might ask? He's the man in the bow tie. He's a TimeLord, an alien, with a time machine called the TARDIS. He calls it 'Sexy' sometimes, although being quick to correct others with, 'It's TARDIS. Time And Relative Dimensions In Space.' Hardly anyone paid attention to his explanation.

Suddenly, the TARDIS went dead still. It had landed - but where? Nobody ever knew. That was all the fun of it.

"She decided to override you again?" Rory let go from the couch leg he was holding onto for dear life, pulling himself up to his feet.

The Doctor ran his hands through his brown hair, which just flopped back again in front of his eyes. "Yes, yes," he answered, somewhat distracted, but frustrated nonetheless. "She wants to go against everything I say," - he slammed his fist down on the panel to get a few lights going again- "doesn't she?"

"Moody old thing, aren't you?" Amy rose an eyebrow towards the ceiling. The living thing, the TARDIS, hummed slightly in amusement.

Blowing out a breath, the Doctor grabbed his sonic screwdriver and tucked it into the pocket of his tweed jacket. Snapping his suspenders and running his eyes through the room, he looked at the Ponds with a twinkle of mischief in his eyes. "Lets see where we are."

The Doctor ran to the doors and swung one open, being greeted by a bright light of sun. "Well, not an alien planet, that's for sure," he thought aloud. Stepping out and dragging the door behind him lazily, a breeze swept through the small town he'd landed in. He licked his finger and held it up before coming to a conclusion. "Lawrence, Kansas. 2011-ish." He dragged out the year, showing hesitation and uncertainty. "Maaaybe. Modern times, definitely."

"You can tell by licking your finger?" Rory stepped out next to him, giving his alien friend a surprised look.

"Don't be surprised anymore, Rory," Amy joined the two. "Everything with him is weird."

The Doctor grinned, casting a glance at her before looking ahead again and clapping his hands together once. "Alrighty then! Come along, Ponds, lets explore."

**********

The little area in Lawrence that the three were brought to was fairly small. There were many buildings, a few houses, before it branched off to the more populated areas of Lawrence. They had explored it all, getting a few dirty looks and smiles along the way.

Coming up to a deserted building, the Doctor stopped to look at it fully. "Huh.."

Amy inspected it, confused. "What?"

"This isn't a normal building," the Doctor concluded, taking out his sonic screwdriver and scanning it. The screwdriver glowed green at the tip, making a high pitched whining sound. "Yup, definitely not like the others. Lets go in." He started ahead, Amy right on his tail and leaving Rory behind with the expression of, 'What the fuck?' Seeing the Doctor and Amy weren't gonna come to their right minds and turn around, he sighed and ran to catch up with them.

The inside was dark and dim, damp like any other deserted building. A few leaks in the piping above their heads dripped water, causing them to dodge a few areas. There was a smell of stale water, though, kind of like swamp.

"Well then," the red haired woman muttered under her breath, stepping over a puddle. She heard the high pitched whining again and looked up, seeing the Doctor scanning anything that seemed suspicious.

They continued on, slowly walking throughout the rooms, when the Doctor came to a stop in front of something long, covered by a white sheet. His eyes narrowed, taking in all the details as he pulled it off and dropped it to the grey cement.

"A.. mirror? What's a mirror here for?" Rory spoke up after a while.

"I don't know, Rory," the Doctor glanced over at him. "Your guess is as good as mine." He scanned the frame with his screwdriver, checking the results that came up and found nothing suspicious.

"Maybe someone wanted to check their appearance," Amy remarked sarcastically.

"Who would even go inside of this thing?"

"Crazy people."

"That means that we're crazy," Rory replied to Amy, then received a nod.

"Yup."

As the three walked around the room, inspected the only thing in it, and found nothing interesting, crowded in front of the mirror. The Ponds were bickering a bit, playfully of course, whereas the Doctor stayed silent with a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach. His feeling was only justified when they heard little pitter-patters. Their voices went silent and their gaze was brought to the top part of the mirror.

There was blood. Blood was dripping with quiet taps, one at a time as if someone were taunting them. They ran down the glass, streaking their reflections with red.

Breath hitching in their throats, they brought their wide eyes up slowly, hoping that this was only their imaginations and that their suspicions were wrong. Soft gasps were sharp against the air when they saw a woman pinned to the ceiling. Her mouth was wide open in a silent scream, eyes as wide as saucers. Her clothing was stained a dark red, still freshly wet as the red liquid dripped, dripped down.

"Oh my god," Amy choked out.

"Dear Gallifrey," the Doctor forced, not being able to breathe in any air.

"She-" Rory started, putting a foot behind the other to steady out his balance.

Right when they saw sparks of flame start to ignite, starting to spread across the ceiling, something pushed them quickly one-by-one through the mirror. That's when the whole building began to crumble down into pieces of plaster and ash, bringing the story of the woman into the unknown.

**********

The Doctor, Amy, and Rory all expected to smash into the glass and die in a fiery death when the flames came for them. But no. That's not what happened at all.

They went through the mirror and landed on carpeted flooring.

"And cut!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I originally posted this story on Fanfiction.net and decided to post it on here too. I like the fanfics I read on this website and wanted to give my idea a go. I haven't written another chapter to this in a while, but I'll update when I have the time and motivation.
> 
> I know it's short. It was supposed to be kind of like an introduction, as well as the next two chapters, and the Fanfic.net site has a slightly different format. I'll probably be writing on here from now on, though, then transfer the chapter there.
> 
> I don't own anything that you recognize in this entire story.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	2. Chapter 2

"We're back, Mrs. Hudson," John Watson called from the door of 221B. Shrugging off his coat as he stepped to the side, an older woman exited her flat to greet him.

"John," Mrs. Hudson spoke with a smile. She then glanced behind him to see Sherlock Holmes enter and shut the door behind him. "Sherlock. Have you found a case?"

The dark curly haired man nodded. "It was the mother." He began to unwind and tug his dark blue scarf from around his neck. "No other cases are worth my time." He then stomped up the stairs _("I wasn't stomping," he'd protest. "Gravity was going against my wishes.")_ , his shoes making clomping sounds against the wood.

John sighed and rolled his eyes, following his colleague up the stairs and into the flat that they shared together. It was a very cluttered place with questionable wallpaper. A yellow smiley face that dragged down at one corner of the mouth like rain drops on a car window was off to the side of a wall, bullet holes accompanying it. Books and papers were scattered across tables and the floor, making the carpet barely visible in some places. The kitchen table was covered with test tubes and vials and microscope slides (with a microscope), and almost everything in between.

Sherlock had flopped onto the couch on his back after hanging his black trench coat up on the coat hanger. His eyes were closed and palms pressed together in a praying motion, fingertips lightly against his lips. This was his 'thinking pose'. In his 'thinking pose', he'd never talk unless he were demanding something from someone or he had a spontaneous feeling to answer when he was being spoken to.

John draped his coat on a peg next to Sherlock's before sitting down in his chair (Yes, _his_ chair.). He closed his eyes as well, blowing out a soft breath. The life the two men led, there was no relaxing at all, really. Running back and forth and going towards danger instead of avoiding it was their specialty. In just only 2 or 3 months, they've probably ran around all of London 30 times. Give the men a medal.

There was a few minutes of silence before Sherlock snapped sharply, "Shut up."

John's eyes snapped open to give him an annoyed look. "Fine," he drawled in a sarcastic tone. "I'll stop breathing to let you think."

"That'd be marvelous," Sherlock hummed, smirking just a bit. John rolled his eyes and sighed lightly, standing up to go to his room.

"Shut up," Sherlock repeated, still staring at the ceiling with closed eyes.

"Piss off," the army-doctor grumbled, disappearing from sight up the stairs and into his bedroom. It was pretty clean, spare a pair of socks and two old newspapers that he'd forgotten to get rid of or throw into the dirty laundry. Closing the door behind him, he lied down on the bed so his feet were hanging off the edge.

He'd sometimes think back to when he and Sherlock met and question why in God's name he had agreed to being flat mates with him. The first hint was that the man proudly called himself a high-functioning sociopath. He never understood why he'd ignored it.

He remembered when he first met Mycroft - actually, _stalked_ by him. He made a show of John's tremor in his left hand. "You aren't haunted by the war, Doctor Watson.. You miss it." For a split second, John honestly thought that the government-official was bullshitting it through, but when he thought a little bit more about it, there was more truth to it than he wanted to realize.

Sherlock brought adventure and variety to his life. Right after John had gotten back into the city and into civilization, it was the same old routines all in black and white. Nothing really to live for in all honesty. But when the younger Holmes brother showed up, everything had turned a 180 and the rest was history.

John was then broken out of his thoughts by a faint whispering. His eyes opened and he pushed himself to a sitting up position, looking around. The whispering continued.

" _John.._ "

He didn't find anything but a mirror, his dresser and desk, and everything else a normal bedroom would have. Nothing out of the ordinary. No one was there. So he just passed it off as his imagination and ignored it.

" _John_ _.._ " The voice had a high pitch to it, a tease to it. As if it were to lure him into its trap. John followed the sound and figured it out to be from the mirror's direction. His brows furrowed together over his grey colored eyes, frowning.

He stood up and approached the glass apprehensively before stopping himself. ' _You're treating a mirror like it's going to attack you, you idiot,_ ' he thought bitterly, shaking his head and straightened his stance. He soon stood right in front of it, staring at his reflection.

He sees a broken man on the way to mending himself. His eyes looked tired. They looked like they'd been to hell and back, seen so many horrors to last a life time. John Watson was.. _tired_.

A deep sigh escaped his lips and he ran a hand down his face to wipe away nonexistent dust. Why was he doing this anymore? He asked himself that question, too, but didn't know what 'this' was, but he found himself wondering it anyways.

_Drip.. Drip.. Drip.. Drip.._

John looked up from the ground behind him through the reflection and up towards the top. His eyes went as wide as saucers, taking a step back as his mouth slowly went into a small 'o' shape.

Blood dripped slowly from above, running down the clear glass and staining it. It covered his face in the reflection, more and more dripping down like rain drops off of trees after it just rained.

He slowly dragged his gaze up to find a woman. A woman in a night gown and eyes and mouth wide open, silently screaming. Dear God, John could almost hear it. Blood seeped from her abdomen, spreading across the cotton fabric and dampen rapidly by the second, hence the dripping.

Before he realized it, something with strong force shoved him into the mirror.

No.

_Through._

*********

Sherlock heard John's yell from his bedroom. His eyes snapped open and he was up on his feet in a blink, beginning to run up the stairs. He quickly twisted the doorknob and barged in, finding no one in site. Just the army-doctor's bedroom.

"John?" he called, walking in further and inspecting everything. There were no signs of struggle.. Well, until he spun around to face the mirror. Red substance lined it and more was dripping from its source.

Sherlock walked closer to the mirror, his heart speeding up a little bit. His silvery-blue eyes slowly looked up, doubting his suspicion, but it was soon confirmed. He couldn't even make a sound, or even think, before being shoved through the mirror in front of him.

He heard John's grunt as they landed simultaneously, feeling the carpet underneath his fingers.

_"And cut!"_

 


	3. Chapter 3

"Dean! Behind you!" Sam Winchester shouted, panting as he struggled against the force holding him against a tree. Said person, his older brother Dean Winchester, readied his sawed off shotgun, spun around, and shot. The wispy figure burst into thin air.

Sam fell to the ground with an 'oof!' and immediately grabbed a lighter from his pocket. He and his brother had already salted the bones in the grave, gasoline drenching it. All he needed was to light it up. Flipping the cover, he spun the tiny metallic wheel and pressed down hard on the push button. Flame sparked up before being thrown into the grave they had dug up.

The two brothers released a breath of relief, catching their breath, as a cold breeze swept through the trees in the dark of the night. The fire resisted it, giving them a small wave of warmth.

Dean looked up from the flames to his younger brother, giving him a slight nod. He resisted the urge to wince at how beaten up and awful Sam looked. But then again, he himself didn't look any better either.

The Winchesters watched the fire thrive and burn out before gathering their things (shovels, guns, etc.) and leaving. They walked through the dark cemetery, the grass brushing against their dirty shoes and dirt caking the soles of them.

"There's my baby," Dean grinned, hurrying up his pace to meet his 67' Chevy Impala. The black car had been around since they were children. Dean kept it alive even after his Dad, John Winchester, died. Popping the trunk, Sam and Dean dumped all of their shovels and weapons carelessly inside and slammed it back closed. Sam hopped into his usual shotgun and Dean in the driver's seat.

Soon, they were down the road with rock music blaring in the night.

********

"I call first shower!" Dean burst into their hotel room they had rented out for a few days. Sam only rolled his eyes.

"Of course." The youngest collapsed in a chair at the kitchen table while Dean gathered his clean clothes and closed the bathroom door behind him.

Sam listened for the shower head to rain down water against the tub, finding comfort in knowing that Dean hadn't spontaneously died. Man.. He really had to worry about that? That's a messed up life, damn. He glanced around the kitchen before standing up and grabbing a beer from the fridge. Moments like these, in relaxation, were very scarce and couldn't be wasted. He leaned against the back rest, slouching in his seat.

Dean, wanting to get out of his dirty clothes, quickly stripped of them and stepped into the hot water. He let a small noise of appreciation, an "Ahh.." escape his lips when he felt the heat. It beat against his sore back and filled him with warmth that was very much needed. He ran a hand down his face, hoping to wipe away the mental dust and fatigue away for a while. After washing up and everything, he stood there for a little while longer to think. Deciding he was done, he quickly turned the water off and dried off before changing into a new pair of clothes. It wasn't much different from his regular clothing. He had a feeling he wouldn't be sleeping tonight.

Dean hung up his towel on the rack and wiped away the steam from the mirror above the sink. He did his usual routine teeth-brushing and such. But right when he was about to leave, he froze.

" _Dean.._ " He looked around, alarmed.

"What the-"

" _Dean.._ " Dean's eyes landed on the full length mirror on the back of the bathroom door, still covered with steam. He reached a hand out to wipe it away, making the reflection clearer. He succeeded, but at the last second, something pulled him through it with such a force, no one could have done it. It practically sucked him up.

The oldest Winchester brother went tumbling through the glass as if it were fluid, but completely dry. His palms and knees slammed against a carpeted floor, his eyes snapping open to find a dark olive-ish green floor beneath him.

" _And cut!_ "

********

Sam heard a shout from the bathroom, making him jolt out of the fogginess of his mind and stop from slowly dozing out. He set his half full beer bottle down on the kitchen table and stood up, hurrying to the bathroom door.

"Dean?" Sam asked. "You alright in there?" He gave it a few seconds, no one responding. "Dean?" Nothing. Grabbing a hand gun from the bedside table, he slowly entered the bathroom, his eyes darting around the empty and warm room. Where was he?

He had entered enough to look behind the shower curtain for any possibility he had shrunken down or something like that. He jumped when the door suddenly slammed shut and he spun around, gun up and ready to fire.

" _Sam.._ " He whipped his head around, finding no one in sight.

" _Sam.._ " Said person got nearer to the source he suspected, eyeing the mirror warily. He took a few steps forward, tripping over his own feet at the last second and falling through the mirror.

Sam Winchester lost hold of his gun, catching himself on his palms and knees. It hurt, but it wasn't even close to the most minor injury he's gotten from a hunt. When he first opened his eyes, he saw a dark olive-ish green carpet underneath him.

" _And cut!_ "

 


	4. Chapter 4

The first thing everyone saw while tumbling through their respective mirrors was green. Green carpet on a hard floor. Shards of glass surrounded them all, but oddly, didn't cut them at all. At least, it was odd to them.

Each of them looked up, on their knees, to find cameras pointed at them and people with headsets scurrying around.

"And cut!" a man, British and very familiar to Sherlock and John announced. He was sitting in a chair next to three others who were observing the screens along with him. Mark Gatniss stood up, leaving the headset that was previously around his neck on the chair and the script with someone next to him. "Very nice, everyone."

"Mycroft!?" Sherlock and John exclaimed simultaneously, then glancing at each other from the extra voice blending in with the other. Sherlock quickly stood up, John following.

Amy, Rory, and the Doctor pulled themselves to their feet, taking a look around the foreign place. The cameras, the people, scripts, lights.. This was a film set. They were being filmed for a show on the telly.

The Doctor immediately reached inside his tweed jacket pocket for his sonic screwdriver and pulled it out. It felt different. It was balanced differently, it felt lighter than usual, and like plastic instead of the metal it was usually made out of. Where he would usually put his thumb to activate it was a single button.

"It's a _toy_!" the confused Timelord cried.

Ignoring the strange man's weird claim, Sam and Dean shot to their feet in a fighting stance, ready to take down a few people if they needed to. The knife tucked under Sam's shirt suddenly felt fake and plastic, and when he brought it out, it was retractable. Not metal or remotely real anymore.

"Son of a bitch!" Dean's first words were and quite loud at that. It startled the three next to them, the redhead woman's eyes darting over to them. "Where the hell are we?"

Sam looked around, leaning in close to his older brother to talk quietly. "Well, we definitely aren't in Kansas anymore."

"Don't treat me like Dorthy."

"I'm-" Sam paused, taking in how ridiculous that demand was and rolled his eyes, scowling for a moment. "Whatever."

Dean bent down to pick up a piece of glass, which immediately bent backwards between his fingers. He shot up to his regular height, flinging it back and forth in front of Sam's face. "It's fucking _rubber_!"

Sam shot a glance at the rest next to him at Dean's bad language before glaring daggers at said person. "You might want to be quiet," he warned.

"Nevermind being quiet," Dean snapped. "None of us know where we are, I fell _through_ a mirror, and everything is fake. Don't I have the right to freak out!?"

********

When the seven of them stopped talking and looked at the people beyond the set they were in, familiar faces happened to pop up.

The first was Mycroft, for Sherlock and John. Sherlock had immediately found the name plate on the director's chair he was previously in, finding 'Mark Gatniss' as his name. He scoffed. "What kind of name is _Mark_?"

"Apparently, your brother's," John hissed in a hushed tone.

"He's not my brother," Sherlock replied. The stupid look on his face, along with the tone, shouted, 'You're an idiot!' "He's obviously someone else. I just don't know how."

"Oh look," John drawled. "The great Sherlock Holmes not knowing something - first time ever!"

"Shut up."

Meanwhile, Rory was freaking out, the Doctor mentally running around, and Amy was calm but silently cursing all logic. In her calmness, Amy reached out to Rory and took his hand, bringing him closer.

"Rory," she said firmly, getting his attention. Her voice then softened a bit. "We've done things like this before and we've lived."

"This doesn't make any sense," Rory mumbled, letting his free hand run down his face.

"Since when does anything we do make sense?" Amy quirked an eyebrow at her husband, remembering when she met the 30-year-old version of herself and when the TARDIS was inside a girl's body with a planet inside the real box, trapping them in some type of fucked up time loop.

"..True." Rory shrugged his shoulders.

"For God's sake, Sammy- wait, is that Ruby?" Dean snapped his head in a certain direction, finding the familiar brunette.

Sam looked over, his eyes then going wide. "I guess so," he choked out his words.

"And Cas? Balthazar?" Dean felt his feet move, taking him towards the little cluster of people. "Lucifer?"

"Moriarty?" Sam heard a British accent almost gasp. Almost. Not quite, but the owner of the voice seemed very surprised.

********

The seven fictional characters couldn't help but stare in shock at everyone, and I mean _everyone_ from their past and present. Everyone who was dead, everyone who they'd lost touch with.. Everyone.

But that was before they were pulled away from the set.

A woman with jet black hair and a wide, happy smile grabbed the Doctor's wrist and pulled him towards a vanity stand where they did actor's make-up. "C'mon, Matt," she said, sitting him down in a chair.

The Doctor fidgeted, hanging half off of the chair. "Um-" He racked his brain for anything to make this make sense to him, his fingers twitching in front of him and eyes darting from object to object on the table, not picking up anything from it. He felt a wipe run down his face and he flinched away. "Hey! I-" He glanced at the make-up removing wipe with disgust, finding it covered with make-up the color of his skin. His eyes darted to the mirror and he leaned forward, a hand slowly brushing over the spot on his cheek.

"Oh my god, I'm a painted whore!" Dean gasped loudly a little ways away, earning weird looks, especially from his make-up artist. He kept on flinching away from the woman's hand, agitating her and eventually caused her to snap.

"Jensen, you sit your ass right down now," she firmly said abruptly.

Dean's eyes widened and he nodded slowly, learning his role in this little game that he was thrown into. Unfortunately for everyone else, their roles were being learned at different rates.

Sherlock was pulled to his side of the set, being called the name 'Ben', which he held great distaste to. He hadn't reacted well to be man handled, eventually making the make-up artist almost cry.

John just felt really awkward, fidgeting in his seat. Rory as well, where Amy was just as feisty and friendly as usual.

No one knew what happened, and found all of this a bit hectic for a spur of the moment thing. But oh boy, were they wrong.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For this chapter and the next, it'll be a bit short due to the different length format on the other website I wrote this on. Bear with me here, please.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	5. Chapter 5

The make-up artists wiped their assigned actors of the old make-up and sent them on their way. Wandering the studio, they eventually found chairs that had their 'fake' names on them. A little group started to form until they were all there.

Sherlock was murmuring questions to John, slowly starting to go mad. "How is this happening? How did we fall _through_ a _mirror_!?"

John blew out a breath through his nose, running a hand down his face. He shook his head. "How would I know?" he questioned, his voice letting annoyance seep through. "I'm not a damn magician."

"You were there first," Sherlock pointed out, gesturing towards his with his left index finger, his hands pressed together like a prayer against his cupid's bow. "You saw everything."

"I didn't see what the process was," John hissed. "One moment I was in our bathroom, the next I'm here."

"Pay more attention next time!"

"Fine," the army-doctor drawled. "Next time I spontaneously fall through a mirror and into another dimension, I'll pay more attention."

********

Amy perked up at hearing the words 'another dimension.' "You've been sucked here too?" she hesitantly spoke up.

The man in front of her with sandy blonde hair turned around to see her. His expression at first was how it was talking to the man next to him, annoyed and irritable. It softened once he saw her. "Us?"

Amy nodded. "Yeah.. Who else would I be talking to?"

A corner of his lips curled up in amusement. "In that case, yes. I'm assuming that your friends-" he gestured towards the Doctor and Rory, then to the other side where two brothers (thanks to Sherlock's deductions) sat, "are too?"

Amy's brows furrowed over her green eyes. "Actually.." Her words faded as she tilted her chin up to look over him at the two brothers. "I don't know them." She glanced up to the side, thinking for a moment, then back to him. "I don't know you either, actually."

The man was quick to introduce himself, offering his hand to shake. "Oh! John Watson." He pulled his hand away from hers to gesture to the dark haired one next to him. "This is Sherlock Holmes."

Amy's eyes brightened at the mention of their names. "Oh, I've heard of you two!" She started to smile widely. "I read your blog when the Doctor was screwing around with some tools of his."

John nodded. "I, uh, get that a lot when meeting new people."

"I bet." John chuckled in response to this, only to be interrupted by one of the unknown people off to his side.

"So," the shorter one began, "do you guys have no idea what the hell happened either?"

John and Amy both nodded. "How'd you get here?"

"Fell through a fucking mirror for God's sake." Dean shook his head in disbelief.

Amy sat straight up, visibly alarmed. "I did too!"

"Us two as well," John gestured to Sherlock. The consulting detective merely glanced over at his friend, no expression to be seen, before going back to his staring into open space.

"Well then." Dean blew out a breath. "Who are you two? I'm Dean Winchester. This is my brother Sam." Said brother held up a hand in a wave, a single nod in their direction before he went back to analyzing whatever was in view.

The two introduced themselves to the hunter just when Rory and the Doctor decided to jump in.

"This is Rory and I'm the Doctor," the Time Lord said quickly all in one breath. "It looks like we've been shoved into a parallel universe. I don't know how exactly such technology can be stored in just simple glass, but if I am correct, which I almost always am, this isn't some type of bizarre parallel universe where we're trapped in by giraffes. It behaves like any other." He paused. "I have been in one particular bizarre one though. It was not fun trying to get out."

Dean stared blankly. "Your name is Doctor?"

There was a groan. "Yes, yes."

"Apparently mine is-" Rory turned around to look at the name plate on his chair, "Arthur Darvill."

Sam checked his, his face scrunching up as he read it. "Jared Padalecki."

"You're _Swedish_?" Dean made a face. Sam rolled his eyes, ignoring his comment as the others read their actor names.

"Martin Freeman."

"Karen Gillan."

"Matt Smith?"

"Jensen Ackles."

Sherlock didn't do anything, just sitting in slouch-ish position, staring straight ahead. He was silent and not moving. Some of them wondered if he was alive.

"..Sherlock?" John spoke. "Are you alive or..?"

"Yes, of course I'm alive," Sherlock suddenly snapped. "I'm _breathing_. Don't tell me you're turning into Anderson. Apparently my name in this dimension is Benedict Cumberbatch."

There was a snort from the Winchester's direction, which earned a cold glare that could send soldiers away with their tails between their legs.

Amy awkwardly puffed her cheeks out for a moment before blowing out air in a sigh. "Lets see who we are then."

The Doctor jumped up from his seat. "Ah, yes, lets go do that." He turned towards the rest, evidence on his face that he hadn't thought of something. "Where do we live?"

********

"Damn, Sammy," Dean wolf-whistled. "How many shows did you take up to get _this_?"

Sam only glared at his brother, walking inside and leaving the door open to 'his' house. It was more of a mansion, actually. It was grand and fancy, some alcohol on a table in the corner, multiple floors above, paintings of himself and some other girl, a pretty expensive looking couch, etc.

Rory peeked behind the curtain. "You've got a llama?"

"Alpaca, genius," a woman's voice was heard in a disgusted tone. Everyone looked up to find Ruby, a beautiful brunette with a black dress on that hugged her figure just right.

"Ruby?" Dean gaped.

The woman rolled her eyes, descending down the stairs in black heels. "Nice one, Jensen," she said sarcastically. "Jared, I'm leaving now. They're gonna be disappointed you know.."

Sam opened and closed his mouth a few times, stumbling over words and pronunciation. "Uh.. Yeah! Yeah, I know they will, but I'm uh- kind of busy.." He was missing a name, which she apparently got right away.

"Genevieve?"

"Genevieve!" Sam put an awkward smile on. "Yeah. I'll see you tonight."

Genevieve grabbed her handheld purse off of the couch and leaned up to kiss Sam on the cheek before leaving. "Have fun, I guess." She sounded disappointed, or a bit annoyed, when she left, closing the door behind her.

Sherlock wandered around the room, his coat and scarf along with everyone else's on the coat hanger right next to the door, as he inspected everything to gather a story. "Wealthy man, I see," he murmured.

While Dean plopped down on the couch, John awkwardly sitting next to him, the Doctor spotted a laptop on the kitchen table.

"Now, why don't we see who we are?" He swept it up into his hands and moved it over to a certain spot he wanted. He flipped the lid open and his fingers started typing at a fast speed once a few clicks to unlock the computer (such an easy password, it's appalling) and open a browser was made.

Everyone found a seat at the table, flocking around. The Doctor gave a slight scowl, jutting his elbows out. "Personal space, geesh." He first looked up Dean's 'name,' Jensen Ackles.

Sam leaned over to read over the Doctor's shoulder and he grinned widely. "You were in a soap opera?"

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll do my best to make the next chapter longer. :)
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies for not updating for like 10,000 years. I kinda got distracted, and then life went on as it usually does and I forgot about this for a few weeks? I've gotten a few comments and they always pop up in my e-mail first, so when I'm checking it, I'm like "gASP PLEASE DON'T SAY THEY HATE IT". I'm always wrong, though. Thank you for the comments, my fellow SuperWhoLock fans! <3 c:
> 
> So, about the settings, Sherlock is Season 3. It will be until I say so, which will be in like 4,000 years since they're going slow as hell with the hiatus for it.
> 
> Supernatural is in any more recent season that doesn't have Deanmon or Amara in it. The reason that I say this is because  
> as the story progresses, characters will be popping up. You will know all in due time.
> 
> Doctor Who is obviously in the seasons with the 11th Doctor. It stops in early 7th season since Clara soon pops up and Amy and Rory are whisked off to Weeping-Angel Land. I still cry-
> 
> So, yeah! Sorry for any confusion that I just solved or created? Yeah. 
> 
> Enjoy!

"So," Sam plopped down onto the sofa that he so magically owned and sat down the laptop on his lap. "We're all on separate TV shows."

Dean was on the other side of the couch, his shoes pushed off onto the floor and feet stopping right at Sam's thigh. Sherlock and John took the love seat just by chance, leaning back. The Doctor sat on the floor criss-cross-applesauce in a childish way that no one protested to as long as he was quiet, and Amy and Rory pulled up a chair for each from the table and brought them into the living room, sitting next to each other.

Sherlock noticed how the two brothers were around each other at a neutral state. They weren't tense or weary, they weren't playing off an act of doing things they usually wouldn't just for show. They were comfortable and didn't really care, nothing to hide.

Sam's fingers flew across the keyboard at a quick speed, typing in names. "So, Dean and I-" he glanced over at Dean to make sure he was listening, which he was, watching attentively - "are the main characters of a show called Supernatural." His eyebrows furrowed together and he leaned back in surprise. "There are 9 seasons and way more to come, apparently. We help write the episodes, as well as Erik Kripke."

Dean laughed up at the ceiling. "Yeah, man, we're famous!" He grinned. Then he paused, the expression disappearing into a look of horror. "Everybody knows our lives!?" He shot up and stole the laptop from Sam's grasp. "Dammit, Chuck!"

Sam only shrugged. They had more on their hands than everybody having an idea of what their lives were like. "It's fiction here, remember?" He stole it back from Dean and leaned against the arm rest, propping the computer up onto it. He glanced up from the screen and to the two British men across the room. "John Watson and Sherlock Holmes, right?"

John nodded in confirmation.

Sam nodded and typed in their names. He snorted once he found the answer. "Now, you two are in a show called Sherlock. BBC's Sherlock to be specific. 3 seasons, a 4th to come, and only has 9 episodes altogether, each an hour and a half."

Sherlock gave a faint smirk, whereas John just rolled his eyes and sighed. "Way to boost his ego, Sam," he said.

"The writers are Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss, who plays Mycroft."

Rory rose an eyebrow. "The writer playing their own written character?"

Sam glanced over at him. "It's not entirely uncommon.. Stan Lee, the creator of Marvel, is in each Marvel movie for like, 3 seconds. Anyways." He went up to the search bar and typed in 'Amy Pond, Rory Williams, the Doctor'. "Now, you three are in a show called Doctor Who. Again, created by BBC and one of the main writers is once again Steven Moffat. There are 6 seasons of the modern Doctor Who. It's a continuation of the old version, which aired when Dean and I were younger. So, altogether, quite a few seasons and way more to come."

The Doctor rose his eyebrows. "Well then."

"What are the descriptions?" Dean asked from his side of the couch.

Sam hummed softly as he searched for them. "Netflix version?"

"Yup."

"Supernatural: Siblings Sam and Dean crisscross the country, investigating paranormal activity and picking fights with demons, ghosts, and monsters." The two Winchesters rolled their eyes simultaneously.

"Seriously!?" Dean groaned in disgust. "Picking fights? They chose to pick fights with us, not the other way around." He heard a probably nasty comment from under Sherlock's breath, in which he strained his neck to look over at the man. "Hey, smartass. Lets see what yours is. Bet it's worse than ours."

"Very mature." Amy rolled her eyes, sighing quietly and leaning against her husband.

Sam began to read the description. "In this updated take on Arthur Conan Doyle's beloved mystery tales, the eccentric sleuth prowls the streets of modern-day London in search of clues. At his side - though hobbling - is flatmate Dr. John Watson, fresh from the war in Afghanistan."

"Hobbling?" 

John felt his cheeks heat up a bit. He didn't know of embarrassment or slight anger that it labeled him as somewhat crippled, which he was not. "That was when I first met Sherlock."

Sherlock leaned back in his seat, arms crossed over his chest as he lazily started to spout off his recollection of when they first met. "Psychosomatic limp after getting shot in the left shoulder. He was very willing to forget about his cane once I ran him around London." He glanced down at the army doctor's hand. "He still has a tremor in his left hand every now and then, but-"

John gave his ankle a kick. "Sherlock," he hissed.

"What?"

"Stop that. It's called a personal life for a reason."

"It's not that personal when you have an entire blog about it that's being followed by almost all of England and a big part of other countries," Sherlock argued.

"It's not like they've read it though!" John made gestures towards the others with his hands. "It probably doesn't even exist here anyways."

"It does," Sam said simply. "And 'The Science Of Deduction.'" He snorted, sarcasm dripping in his following words. "Very interesting website, Sherlock. 142 types of tobacco ash."

Sherlock huffed. "It matters," he grumbled.

"No it doesn't," Sam said, his words quick so he would be talking before Sherlock could reply. "They're both run by the writers, I'm assuming. Anyways, onto Doctor Who."

Thee 11th Doctor perked up, listening intently. His face only fell when Sam furrowed his eyebrows and said, "Huh. There's nothing. They took it off of Netflix, hm."

"Awee-" the Doctor frowned. Sam closed the laptop and set it aside for now.

"How about we play 20 questions to get to know each other?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you very much to the online world via Netflix for descriptions. Very annoying to look so hard for something so simple, but as we all know writers are too lazy to do some things. Such as actually turn on Netflix and look up the summaries.
> 
> It's very short, I know, I'm just trying to get myself back into this story again to be honest. The next one will be better.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
